


This is Gift, It Comes With a Price

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Corrupted Sansa, F/M, post-adwd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr’s gifts come with strings attached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Gift, It Comes With a Price

He rests it between them, solemnly, but with a flourish that bespoke  _importance._

The air between them is oddly still, the kind of dead silence that can only come with winter. Outside the ice will be cracking in the trees, almost like logs on a fire, but up here, in the towers of the Eyrie, all is silent. As if they are the only two left in the world. In Petyr’s eyes, they might as well be. 

Her rooms are bright; full of gauze and silks and light scents, an odd contrast to the acts it borne witness too. Their figures, in the center of all this, seem out of place, dark stains on an otherwise pristine façade.

It wouldn’t look like that, of course, to anyone but the two of them. They have been careful.

At the moment they sat, regarding each other across the vast expanse of her bed. Sansa still half asleep, sheets draped about her and hair down over her shoulders like a veil. Petyr perched on the edge, already dressed and perfectly groomed. He was not a man who needed rest, she had noticed. He had woken her with a brush of lips against her cheek, a hungry press to the mouth, and had spoken little since then.

The box between them is polished wood, clearly well made. When Sansa finally reaches out to take it, not being able to resist it much longer, her slim fingers dance across the surface, absorbing the smooth feel of it. When she goes to open it Petyr moves quickly, covering her hand with his, pressing down.

“Not yet,” he says under his breath, his fingers entwining with hers. After a beat he looks up to catch her eye and he’s  _Petyr_ in that moment, all trace of artifice gone. It takes a second for her to adjust to this, for her to slip into a matching state of being—never, of course, dropping her defenses entirely.

“It’s a gift for you,” he explains, stuttering a bit as if he’s a lovesick boy. He seems to realize this and breaks their eye contact as he gathers himself, their fingers remaining locked. “And it’s something you can use. Do you understand that?”

Her heart stops. She’s still looking at him, the grip between them tightening. Petyr’s eyes are all grey now, intense and completely focused on her, judging her, weighing how she reacts at this precise moment. Sansa doesn’t know what it is that lays between them but she can feel the importance, can feel that this is another turn in the path Petyr has mapped out for her. Another twist from which there is no turning back.

She knows, without even understanding what is in the box, that the mere fact that Petyr is giving her this speaks volumes.

Lady Hardyng, such a beauty, such an  _innocent_ , nods once. Petyr smiles.

Hand released she now takes sole possession of the box. Sliding her knees up she draws it to her, cradles it in her lap. Petyr views her the way a man might view a woman holding his child and Sansa shutters slightly, almost in anticipation of a memory not yet created.

With a breath she opens the hinged lid. Inside, on a field of blue velvet—the finest she had ever seen—lay a vial of liquid so clear it almost appears empty. No label indicates what it is, but even so Sansa  _knows_. Petyr gave her the gift of beautiful, painless death.

She regards her present for several moments, the sound of his breathing clear to her. Eager he was to see her pleased with this, to know that she was indeed the woman he suspected. The woman he had  _made_ , armored first in the words and graces he had fostered in her, and now the weapons needed to complete the tasks laid before her.

“Do you understand?” he asks, his voice low. Sansa reaches inside and lifts the vial out, feels its weight and sees the way the light catches it like a prism. It’s as finely made as any piece of jewelry, and of more value. It is with this that she will free herself, once more, this time of a man who does not realize who she is, what she needs. 

“It’s painless?” She asks then, her eyes searching his. Petyr’s lips are turned up in a fond smirk and he nods, once.  _Yes. Of course he knows._  

“Good,” she says. She is not cruel.

Returning the vial to its box, Sansa locks it securely and regards it once more, before setting it gently aside. Once the precious object has been tucked away, Petyr laces his fingers behind her neck and pulls her close, covering her mouth again, almost in relief.

Sansa returns his kiss. He tastes of mint, a taste that is forever linked with shame and pleasure in her body, a taste she yearns for more and more these days. There’s an openness about them that she feels she can share with no other, tainted as she has become. 

She pushes him back but does not break contact, her mouth and hands on him as she pushes him into the downy mattress, straddling his slim hips. Sansa pauses briefly when she has him pinned and stares down at him, appreciating—not for the first time—the almost vulnerable state she has him in. That he has placed himself in for her. There would be no stopping her slipping the contents of the vial into his drink and yet he did not hesitate in arming her, in giving her this control that no one else would. 

Her fingers tangle in his doublet, the fine silk like water under her hands, and Petyr grips her hard, hands digging into her waist, as if she would flee at any moment. Her hands make their path downward, fingers brushing across the already noticeable bulge in his breeches. Her throat clenches just a bit at the idea of it, that she can excite a man like him in such a short amount of time. It was an almost frightening power, one that far exceeds anything that could be contained in a vial.

Her fingers make quick work of his laces, just as his hands push up at her shift, untying the strings of her smallclothes and freeing her of them. With them still partially clothed, she wraps a hand around his cock and holds it with as much reverence as she did the vial. Fingers tight around him, feeling the  _pulse_  and warmth of him, her lips parting in anticipation.

“Sansa…” he rasps out, and she leans forward to take his mouth once more, to silence him as she takes him inside of her, his thick flesh stretching her wet heat. She doesn’t wish to talk at this moment. Just as with the giving of the gift, no words need to be said. She only wishes to be filled by him, to have him under her, to have him at her pleasure.

She moves her hips in slow circles, humming low in her throat, the sound mingling with his own raw moans until it seems like it fills the silent room.

It’s almost a lazy act, not the act of a couple unused to the feel of each other’s bodies, to each other needs. This is not to say that it was an unwelcome or routine act—on the contrary the pleasure she feels in this moment is unlike anything any other man has ever done for her, or she suspects ever will. Their bodies move against each other in a languid dance that embodies sin, the two of them connected in every meaningful way.

As their movements grow quicker she presses herself against him, hands in his hair, hands on his skin, lips claiming whatever she could. He holds her close, almost crushing her in his need, legs locked with hers.  _Mine, mine, mine_ , she hears in his every thrust and she pants against him in agreement.  _Yours. Mine._  Lips on his neck as he brings her pleasure to its peak, as the image of death in her hand flashes before her eyes. She cries out, almost soundless, the words she wishes to speak dying a quick death on her lips.  _What have you done to me?_

If Petyr suspects her question he doesn’t show it. As she trembles around him he takes his control, pushing into her with a final grunt and spilling, claiming, taking her.

They lay amongst tangled sheets, stained and entwined, not speaking.

Sansa closes her eyes tight and buries her face into the curve of his shoulder, shutting out the world.  


End file.
